


The Beer-Virus

by SaraDobieBauer



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017) RPF
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Break Up, Established Relationship, Fights, Infidelity, Long-Term Relationship(s), M/M, Post-Break Up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-17
Updated: 2020-03-17
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:22:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23186191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SaraDobieBauer/pseuds/SaraDobieBauer
Summary: Armie and Timmy have broken up three times, each time messier than the last, so what right does Armie have to call Timmy in London and beg him to come home? And where the hell is "home" anyway?
Relationships: Timothee Chalamet and Armie Hammer, Timothée Chalamet/Armie Hammer
Comments: 40
Kudos: 174





	The Beer-Virus

**Author's Note:**

> Hi. I'm ... not doing great. As many of you know, I was supposed to have three lovely weeks in Paris. I had one before the world went insane and I was forced to board a plane back to the United States. Currently, I'm numb. Confused and just numb. Then, I saw pictures of Timmy in London yesterday, and it got me thinking. 
> 
> Call me crazy, but I've always believed "something" happened between Timmy and Armie in real life. However, as often happens, it's possible they broke off that "something." I dunno. Here's my take on it. 
> 
> Be safe out there. The world is crazy.

Armie and Timmy have broken up three times, each time messier than the last. The third time was right after promo for _The King_. Armie waited because he said he didn’t want to distract Timmy during the tour, to which Timmy replied, “But what about _Little Women,_ you asshole?”

Yeah, Timmy fucked around a lot during the _Little Women_ tour, so much so that Saoirse (who never gets pissed at Timmy) got pissed at Timmy. She jokingly called him a whore; Timmy didn’t think she was joking. She wasn’t joking. Timmy slept with way too many people in way too many countries during that tour.

The third break-up shouldn’t have hurt so much. Timmy knew something was wrong. Armie was pulling away. He was distant. He canceled plans. He was all fucking cute on social media with is wife, because _oh, yeah,_ Armie has a wife. And kids. And a life where Timmy can’t possibly fit, no matter how many years they’ve spent trying to “make it work.”

Now, Timmy is in London, and this coronavirus is causing such mass hysteria, he had to make it into a joke by calling it the “beer-virus.” He jokes about it so he doesn’t start crying, because this virus is about to fuck up his career. For instance, The Old Vic just canceled the last two weeks of _Endgame_. They haven’t made any decisions about _4000 Miles_ , but he feels it coming as the virus spreads and spreads across Europe. It’s not a far leap across the English Channel.

Brian keeps telling him to stay calm, but that feels impossible—especially when his cell phone rings and it’s Armie.

Timmy answers with a clipped, “What?”

“I want you to come home immediately.”

Timmy was pacing. He now slumps against the wall in his rented London flat. “What right do you have to say something like that?”

“Because I care about you.”

Timmy thunks his head against the wall. “Fuck off.”

“It’s only going to get worse,” Armie says. “What if they won’t even let you come home?”

Timmy recognizes Armie’s tone. It’s the no-nonsense, ice-cold tone he’s used when breaking up with Timmy—twice—because although Timmy ended it the first time, Armie has put the kibosh on rounds two and three. This is the “trying not to be emotional” tone, but Timmy knows it just means Armie is about to freak out.

Timmy kicks off from the wall and continues to pace. “I have a job, Armie. I can’t just leave.”

“Fuck your job,” Armie spits.

“Fuck you.” Timmy hangs up and throws his phone on the unmade bed. He drags his hands through his hair with enough vehemence to hurt before grabbing his headphones, retrieving his phone, and leaving the room.

He steps onto the brightly lit sidewalks of Notting Hill. He plays The 1975’s new album, the one that doesn’t come out until April, but he’s buddies with Matty now ([they might have messed around once](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17755001)), so Timmy got an early copy.

The streets are empty. No one else is around, not even a stray dog. It would feel very apocalyptic if not for the sunshine, and Timmy thinks there might be a photographer hiding behind that car up ahead. Whatever. So there will be pictures of him. Feed the fans. Let them know he’s not in quarantine, sick somewhere. They’ll say he looks skinner, though. He is skinnier. He can’t seem to keep on weight anymore. He’s shrinking, inside and out.

Back in his apartment, he has a meltdown. He sits in the middle of his king-sized bed and sobs until it hurts. He sobs and sobs and can’t stop. He thinks about the beer-virus and Armie’s stupid “I care about you.” Sure, he cares, after months of nothing but passive aggressive posts on social media—posts Timmy knows damn well are intended for him.

And, of course, Timmy has responded. Can’t help himself really. He posted that selfie of the backless shirt from the Hollywood Film Awards, didn’t he? A tease for Armie: _Look what you can’t have anymore._

It’s not like the media helps. The entire world is still shipping Armie Hammer and Timothee Chalamet. Christ, even Scott posted that Twitter comment about The Psychedelic Furs. Timmy knows Scott wants him back together with Armie, but that post fucking hurt—and Scott is his best friend!

When his phone rings again, Timmy doesn’t even have to look at the caller ID. He can just _feel_ it’s Armie.

Armie doesn’t wait for Timmy to say anything. “I’m sorry about what I said. Just come home please.”

Timmy falls back on the bed and wipes the snot from his face with the back of his hand. “Where’s home, Armie? New York? LA? Christ, the beer-virus is worse in both of those places than it is here.”

Armie pauses. “The beer—oh.” He gets it because they’ve always gotten each other, even while screaming at each other. “Look, I’m driving across the country right now.” He pauses again. “Detroit. Fly into Detroit. Please.”

_“Why?”_ he practically shouts.

“Because I love you! I’ll always love you. Whether we’re fucking or not, Tim, you’re one of the people I care about most on this stupid earth, and I want you safe!”

Timmy squeezes his eyes shut because he knows this. He’ll know this for the rest of his life. Even if they don’t talk for a decade, they’ll still love each other. “I can’t do this right now.” He hangs up.

The phone rings ten seconds later, but it’s Brian. Brian explaining that the show isn’t canceled, but they’re sending him home for a week “just in case.”

In case what, he wonders? The world has already gone mad.

When Brian starts talking about tickets to New York, though, Timmy stops him. “Detroit. I want to fly into Detroit.”

“What? Why?”

“None of your fucking business,” he says and hangs up. He shouldn’t take things out on Brian, but well, there’s no one else there.

***

Timmy gets drunk on the flight. It helps that the gorgeous male flight attendant has a crush on him. After three bourbons, Timmy considers the mile high club but probably shouldn’t draw any more attention to himself. He’s not supposed to be on a plane, after all. He’s supposed to be in London, preparing for sold out shows at The Old Vic. Shows that seem less and less likely.

When he lands, it’s only 7 PM in Detroit. They wait on the tarmac for an hour before some CDC people come on and ask questions, talk about the beer-virus, strongly suggest self-quarantining for fourteen days, blah, blah, blah …

There’s a driver waiting, of course, holding a sign with the letters “TC.” Timmy, in sunglasses and a hat, nods and follows the guy out to a fancy, black town car. Fucking Armie and his fancy shit.

The hotel lobby is much too bright. It’s 1:30 in the morning for Timmy's internal clock, and he’s gone from drunk to somehow hungover, due to jetlag and all the fluids he lost crying the majority of the morning. He probably looks like a puffer fish.

He knows the room number. Before he can even knock, the door opens, like Armie was just waiting to hear Timmy’s bow-legged shuffle—because of course Armie would recognize the sound of Timmy’s walk.

Armie is in a t-shirt and jeans when he pulls Timmy into the room. “Christ, you must be exhausted.” He takes Timmy’s bags and leads him to the bed with his hands on Timmy’s shoulders.

Timmy lets him. Whatever. As much as he loves Armie, he hates him, too, but he’s numb. He feels nothing but a bed beneath him and then, blessed sleep.

He’s not sure how much time passes, but when he wakes up, it’s pitch black in the hotel room. Timmy feels Armie behind him. Armie’s face is pressed against his spine between his shoulder blades. His legs fold behind Timmy’s like they’re a pair of stacked chairs. A heavy arm wraps around Timmy’s waist.

Timmy shifts, and Armie’s grip tightens. “You need to rest.”

Timmy makes out the red glow of a hotel room clock: 4 AM. “It’s nine in the morning to me.” He shifts some more, but Armie doesn’t let go. “Armie, get off.”

He does. He sprawls onto his back behind Timmy, and Timmy goes to the bathroom for a much-needed piss and glance in the mirror. Jesus, he looks like shit—all red eyes and tangled hair. He is indeed puffy in the face. He looks annoyingly young.

When he steps back into the vast hotel room—must be a suite—Armie is sitting up in bed, and the bedside lamp is lit.

“I didn’t come home for you,” Timmy says. “Brian wanted me back.”

Armie rolls his eyes. “The all-powerful Brian.”

“Don’t bring him into this.”

“Impossible not to,” Armie replies. “He is your keeper.”

“You wanted me to fly back for this?” Timmy yells and gestures back and forth between them. “So we could yell at each other?”

Armie’s voice softens. “No.” He runs a hand over his face, and Timmy notices Armie doesn’t look too great either. His play on Broadway has already been canceled. He’s probably as lost as Timmy. “I don't want us to be like this. You took a job across the ocean to get away from New York, away from me.”

“That wasn’t about you.”

“Bull shit,” Armie snaps. “That was entirely about me. You said you were going to take a break, and then, this fucking London show pops up out of nowhere?” Armie closes his eyes and shakes his head. “Look, I know the timing of our breakup sucked, but—”

“Which one?” Timmy screams. He wonders how long before hotel security shows up.

Armie practically leaps off the bed to point a finger in Timmy’s face. “You broke up with me the first time.”

“Because you were never going to leave your wife!” Timmy grabs his own throbbing head. “And the second and third times never should have happened. I never should have let you back in.”

Armie’s fingers wrap around Timmy’s wrists, but Timmy tears his hands away.

“Don’t,” he growls. He takes a step back, away from Armie’s familiar smell. “So I’m safely back in America. Are we done here?”

“I’m leaving her,” Armie says. The no-nonsense, ice-cold tone is back.

“No.” Timmy shakes his head so much, his curls bounce.

“Yes. I can’t keep …” He fails at trying not to be emotional when his voice shakes and he turns to face the window, the black night of Detroit. “I can’t keep smiling when people ask about you, ask if we’ve spoken recently. The social media bull shit. The Charmie conspiracy theories. Strangers ripping apart my wife, not because she deserves it, but because they think I should be with you.”

“Those are all external factors, Armie. None of that has to do with you.”

He turns to face Timmy, eyes wet. “I told you I love you.”

Timmy takes a huge breath. “I love you, too, but it’s not the same as what you’re suggesting. You’re suggesting, what, that you’ll leave your wife and shack up with me? Can we even be together anymore, Arms, or have …” Great, now he’s crying. “Have we hurt each other too much?”

Armie doesn’t rush to offer a comforting embrace. Neither man even moves. They’re statues of heartbreak and confusion.

Armie slumps onto the end of the bed and stares at the floor. Timmy just, well, plants his ass on the floor and wipes the tears from his cheeks.

“You’re not supposed to touch your face,” Armie says quietly.

“Fuck it. Fucking beer-virus. Come at me.”

“You look thin.”

“I am thin.” Timmy stands. “I’m leaving.” His bags are still by the door, so it’s easy to scoop the duffle over his shoulder and wheel his suitcase toward the exit.

He doesn’t expect anything from Armie so is duly shocked when the man is suddenly right in front of him, blocking his escape. “I’m not letting you go,” he says.

“Move, Armie.”

“No.” He clenches his jaw. “I mean, I’m not letting you go again.”

Timmy looks at the floor because he can’t look into Armie’s burning blue eyes. “Don’t do this, man.”

Armie takes hold of Timmy’s chin and makes him look up. It’s rough and very Armie. “You’re it for me. You’ve always been it for me. Since that first kiss in the grass.”

Timmy sighs. “Don’t talk about Crema. That wasn’t real.”

“The fuck it wasn’t.” He drops Timmy’s chin but doesn’t move out of his way. “Fine, if Crema wasn’t real, what about the promo tour, huh? What about us making love for the first time in New York? What about when you were filming _Beautiful Boy_ , and I picked you up from the hospital? Took care of you after that asshole gave you hypothermia?” He kicks Timmy’s suitcase, and the thing sprawls backwards. “What about all the late night phone calls, continents away, when I missed you so much it hurt? When all I wanted to do was touch you, but I couldn’t?” He rests his forehead against Timmy’s, and Timmy doesn’t shove him away. “God, how many times have I wanted to call you mine in front of everyone?”

Timmy sobs once, and Armie catches the sound in an open-mouthed kiss. They pull back, foreheads still touching, and grip each other’s shoulders.

“Everything’s going to hell,” Timmy says.

“I know.” He presses kisses to Timmy’s cheeks. “Might as well join the sinking ship.”

Timmy chuckles. “You mean us?”

“No, out there.” He glances at the window. “No matter what happens out there, we’ll be afloat, but I want them all to know that you’re mine and I’m yours and fuck everything else.”

Timmy presses his face against the side of Armie’s neck and nods.

**Author's Note:**

> For those of you who loved "A Vampire Charmie Happily Ever After," it is being released as an original fiction novel called HANDSOME DEATH on April 10. I hope you all give it a try!!
> 
> Come play with me on [Tumblr](http://saradobiebauer.tumblr.com/)! I'm ridiculously in love with Timmy over there.


End file.
